


Sherlollipops - Cherry Shorts

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [59]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's return from the dead, he goes to see his Pathologist...and finds her wearing a very intriguing article of clothing. No S3 spoilers as this was written in the summer of 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Cherry Shorts

Sherlock debated using his key or knocking as he approached the door to Molly's flat. He'd been back from the dead for two weeks now and still wasn't sure what the new rules were regarding their relationship. It was easier fitting himself back into the lives of those who'd truly believed him dead, he was finding, than deducing how to behave with the one person (well, one of two but the only one that really mattered, since his relationship with Mycroft hadn't really been affected one way or another by his fall) who'd known he was actually alive the entire two years he was gone.

The past two weeks had been rather too full for him and Molly to sort things out, what with debriefings and press conferences (both events being equally loathsome in his mind) and emotional meetings with John Watson (one punch, one lengthy hug, a great deal of swearing and sobbing and declarations of if-you-ever-do-anything-like-that-agains) and DI Lestrade (very similar to the meeting with John, although less hugging and far more swearing and threatening) and Mrs. Hudson (no swearing, no hitting, but even more hugging and crying).

During all that commotion and uproar, Molly had remained physically in the background, her own part left anonymous by her own request, yet just as firmly in the forefront of his thoughts.

He'd been in and out of her flat frequently during his time away from the world of the living; her bathroom sink had been stained on several occasions with varying shades of hair dye, to the point where she joked that she'd lose her deposit if the flat hadn't been one she'd inherited from a great-aunt. He'd slept in her guest bed most nights, but the last night before he'd gone to (successfully) hunt down and capture Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's most elusive henchman and assassin, he'd slept in her bed. With her.

A faint smile ghosted his lips as he remembered that particular night. He called it sleeping but not much sleeping had actually taken place. That had been two months ago. After Moran was successfully bagged and taken off by Mycroft's men, he'd gone straight to Molly's, used his key and spent the rest of that night in her arms, desperate to prove to her that their previous night together hadn't been the one-off she'd so bluntly told him she thought it was.

_"Sherlock, it's all right," she'd said to him early the next morning, as he prepared to leave, not knowing if he'd survive this last, most deadly encounter. Moran might not have known for sure that Sherlock was alive and responsible for so much of the havoc that had been wreaked on Moriarty's criminal empire for the past two years, but he suspected. Sherlock would have to be on his toes._

_He'd paused in the midst of donning a pair of faded blue jeans and squinted at her in confusion; what was she going on about?_

_She'd elaborated as soon as she has his full attention. "It's all right about, this," she'd said, waving a hand to indicate her still-naked self under the duvet, nodding at him for extra emphasis in case he didn't get what she was saying. "I don't expect anything more, you don't have to worry about me being all weird once you've taken care of this last bit and come home for real."_

_She'd smiled, a sad smile, but it was sincere. He'd gotten much more adept at reading her emotions and could tell that she meant every word she said._

_He hadn't quite known how to respond, however; no matter how adept he'd grown at reading her emotions his own sometimes tripped him up. All he'd done at the time was nod, clear his throat and say something vague about not knowing what the future would bring. Then he'd surprised them both by giving her a passionate kiss goodbye before exiting via her bedroom window and down the fire escape ladder._

Fast forward to two weeks ago, when he'd entered her flat via that same means. There was a security alarm on the window that he'd installed himself and was the sole owner (besides Molly, of course) to the code for. It had been close to the middle of the night, she'd been sleeping, and he'd managed to strip off all of his clothing before she so much as stirred in her sleep. His hand over her mouth had frightened her, but his voice telling her it was just him and it was over and Moran was in custody and he was going to reveal himself to the world via Mycroft and New Scotland Yard in the morning and could he please have this one last night alone with her – that had calmed her instantly and she'd opened up the duvet and slid over and he'd made love to her with a desperation that surpassed their first time together by a magnitude of ten, a hundred, possibly even a thousand.

He'd been forced to slip away while she was still sleeping when his mobile had beeped, alerting him to the fact that Mycroft was ready for him – NOW – but he'd left her a scribbled note promising to return as soon as everything was sorted.

That, however, had been then. This was now. Everything was sorted – everything except the two of them. And he still hesitated on her doorstep, fiddling with the damned key, wondering if he should use it or knock – or possibly go round the back and climb in through the bedroom window for old times' sake.

Before he could come to any kind of a decision, however, it was taken out of his hands as Molly's door opened and the woman herself stood in front of him, blinking in surprise. "Oh! Sherlock, I didn't know you...are you all...do you want to...I was painting the bathroom," she finished, with a self-conscious glance down at herself.

He sucked in a breath at the sight of her: hair in a messy bun on top of her head, wearing a paint-splattered red tank top and a pair of white cut-off shorts embroidered with cheerful red cherries on one pocket. She was holding a paint brush (covered in white paint) in one hand and was barefoot. There was a single dot of white paint on the end of her nose.

She looked absolutely adorable.

"I was just going down to the utility room," she explained, gesturing vaguely with the paint brush toward the hall in which he remained standing, feeling rooted to the spot as his eyes zeroed in on that dot of paint.

She reached up with her free hand to automatically rub whatever it was he was staring at away, but he just as automatically shot his hand out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "I've missed you," he said, his voice husky, all concerns about how to interact with her vanished as he pulled her into his arms for a passionate, long overdue kiss.

She squeaked in surprise as he pulled her close, trying to murmur a protest about his suit getting ruined, but he ignored her and eventually she stopped trying to protest and just melted into his embrace. Good. He'd missed this, hadn't realized how much he'd missed being with her, having her in his arms – and it had only been two weeks, for God's sake; he'd lived his entire life without her, without kissing and sex, so why did he feel so impatient for it now?

Because it was Molly, of course, the emotional part of his mind retorted. Logic and self-restraint be hanged; he wanted her, and he wanted her NOW.

He walked her backwards into the flat. Music was playing distantly, most likely she had her MP3 player resting on the bathroom sink. He didn't recognize the song, nor did he care what it was. He shut the door with his foot, never breaking the kiss, at least until he accidentally bumped her into the low coffee table sat in front of her sofa. She "ouched" and pulled her head away from his.

"Sorry," he mumbled, trying to move her around the blasted piece of furniture and toward her bedroom, which had of course been his goal this entire time.

She stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Sherlock, what—what are you—wait!" she finally said, clearly annoyed with herself for a return to her stuttering – and equally as annoyed and confused by his actions.

He stopped trying to move her, but refused to remove his hands from around her waist as he waited for her to say whatever it was she intended to say.

"Sherlock, I'm glad to see you," she began.

"I'm glad to see you as well," he replied, his voice a soft rumble, lips quirked up in a smile. "What I would like to do is show you glad I am to see you, if you don't mind."

Her own lips were struggling to suppress a smile, he noted complacently. And her heart was thundering in her chest, as the poets and romance writers would no doubt put it. Good. She still wanted him as much as she ever had. So why the delays? Oh, of course, she needed some kind of declaration from him as to intent...and that was where his thought processes stumbled.

What did he want from her, aside from the obvious?

When she asked that very question, he took a moment before replying, pleased that she'd asked it without stuttering or hesitating – and that she'd kept her hand, the one without the paintbrush, on his shoulder the entire time. "I want things to continue on as they have been – that is to say," he clarified, forestalling the objection he saw gathering on her lips, "I would like our relationship to...continue to progress. I didn't mean to imply that I simply wanted it to remain on a simply sexual level." Some devil prompted him to add, "Although that part is certainly one of the more pleasurable aspects of our interactions to date."

Molly arched an eyebrow at him, although the smile she'd been struggling to suppress was revealing itself, dimple by dimple. "Only _one_ of the more pleasurable aspects?" she asked, her own voice a shade deeper than usual. She dropped the paintbrush onto the newspaper conveniently sitting on her coffee table and reached up to run her white-speckled fingers along his neck and ear.

Sherlock started to speak, cleared his suddenly dry throat, then managed to unstick the words. "Well, I do enjoy working with you in the lab at St. Bart's," he admitted. "Whenever you get deeply involved in the work, you tend to forget who you're working with and act much less self-consciously around me. I did notice that, you know."

"Oh?" she asked, stepping closer to him and running her second hand from his shoulder up to his hair, tugging slightly at the locks curling over the back of his head, bringing his face closer to hers. "Is there anything else you noticed?"

"Your predilection for wearing fruit on your clothing...at first it was a bit...cloying," he confessed, his voice a near growl as he pulled her more firmly against his body. In case she needed a demonstration of exactly how aroused he was at the moment.

"And now?" she breathed into his ear, letting her lips just graze the lobe.

"It's bloody adorable," he said with a huff of annoyance at having been maneuvered into such a ridiculous confession. His hands were exploring the curve of her arse; feeling the raised pattern on the back of her shorts, his annoyance vanished as quickly as it had arisen. "And quite, quite, sexy," he murmured, nibbling on her ear, teasing her as she'd been teasing him. "Cherries on your backside, Molly? I must get a closer look."

With that he spun her around, eyes confirming what his hands had already discovered: the entire back of her shorts was embroidered with clusters of cherries, matching the ones on the front left pocket.

She gave him an impish grin before deliberately leaning down, bending from the waist, legs straight as she reached down and brushed her fingers against the handle of the paintbrush. "I really should clean this up before the paint dries and it's ruined," she said, her hand making no move to actually grasp the handle she was toying with.

That did it. Enough, Sherlock decided, was enough. With a sound very like a growl he scooped her into his arms. She laughed and threw her arms around his neck as he carried her bridal-style to her bedroom. "But Sherlock, the paintbrush!" she mock-protested as they left the sitting room.

"Sod the bloody paintbrush," he snapped as they reached her bedroom door. "I'll buy you an entire box of the things. Tomorrow. Or possibly the day after. And new paint as well, since you've likely left the lid off the can," he added, smug in knowing it was a correct deduction. "The bathroom can wait; I honestly don't believe I can."

Then he was kissing her again, her lips soft and sweet against his as they reached her bed. He knelt on the edge, deposited her carefully in the middle, then gave in and kissed the dot of paint on the tip of her nose before removing his clothing.

She knelt up, drawing the edges of the tank top over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, which he'd already deduced, and the sight of her breasts only served to entice him into leaning forward to drawing each of her nipples in turn into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and sucking lightly while she grasped his head and moaned her appreciation.

Shortly thereafter he was the one making the appreciative moans as she toppled him onto his back, dipped her head to his cock and drew it into her mouth, lips and tongue working to drive him absolutely mad as he bucked his hips and tried not to ram himself down her throat. One hand worked the base of his cock, meeting the edge of her lips as she moved in opposition to herself, and his eyes slammed shut at the pure pleasure he was feeling. Nothing else short-circuited his thought processes quite like sex; how had he lived his entire life until two months ago and not realized it was better than any drug for easing the eternal buzzing of his brain?

He pulled her away when he felt the telltale tightening in his bollocks, pushed her onto her back and busied himself returning the favor, giving himself time to recover a bit so that when he finally did push himself into her, he wouldn't finish before he'd well begun.

Oral sex was immensely satisfying, both in the receiving and in the giving, he'd discovered. Molly had shown him the basics during their second encounter and he'd once again proven to his own satisfaction – and most definitely to hers – that he was, as in almost everything he turned a hand to, an apt if not gifted student.

His tongue grazed her clitoris, the sensitive bundle of nerves already pulsing and slick with her arousal. The scent was unlike anything else he'd ever experienced, primal, sour, but intoxicating in a way he could hardly describe. And the taste of her drove him wild, although experimentation had proven that she was less than enthusiastic about tasting herself on his fingers and tongue.

Ah well, no more kisses for now. Well worth the sacrifice as he heard her moan and cry his name, felt her fingers digging into his hair and scalp, her hips desperately lifting themselves from the mattress as she fought to press herself even closer against his mouth. He allowed it, willingly deepening the "kiss" as his tongue delved deeper into her folds, coaxing out the gathering wetness and drawing it back up to her clitoris. His tongue moved more and more rapidly until suddenly she gave a strangled half-scream, her entire lower body raising itself off the bed and straining against his mouth until just as suddenly she collapsed, utterly spent, completely undone.

He kissed his way up her torso, stopping to once again pay homage to her small but lovely breasts before ending with his lips against her throat and neck. He took himself in hand, guiding himself between her legs and into her welcoming wetness. She was still sensitive, still quivering from the aftershocks of her orgasm, so he went slowly, pressing himself deep inside her and then resting there, holding himself above her by resting on his elbows, waiting for her to make the next move.

As he could have predicted, it wasn't long in coming. She raised and lowered her hips, hands pressing firmly against his backside as she gasped out: "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, don't stop now!" Then she lifted her left leg and wound it around his waist and he was as incapable of stopping himself from pounding into her with a frantic rhythm as he would have been at stopping the rain from falling during a thunderstorm.

When he'd reached his peak and was sliding down the other side, Molly gasping and writhing right along with him, he collapsed against her for a long, comfortable moment before reluctantly rolling off her and lying on his back by her side. The woman did need to keep breathing, after all.

A few minutes later, after the necessary clean-up had been performed, they were back in her bed, with her head on his chest and his arm wrapped firmly around her. "So," she said after pressing a kiss to his chest. "I guess you liked the shorts."

"The shorts, certainly, but more the woman wearing them," he replied, dropping a kiss to the top of her forehead. "Molly," he added after a moment's consideration, "I did mean what I said about wanting our relationship to progress. I'm not fond of the terms 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend,' but if labels must be applied then I'm not averse to us calling each other by those words. If that's what you want," he remembered to add, just before the voice of John Watson could mentally berate him.

"Of course I want that, Sherlock," Molly replied, her voice a sleepy murmur as she draped an arm more comfortably across his chest. "I love you. But you already knew that, didn't you."

He'd stopped breathing. Because no, he hadn't already known that. Oh, he knew she had feelings for him, that she cared for him and worried about him and wanted him, but love? It was so far out of his comfort zone that he hadn't even allowed himself to consider the depth of her emotions.

Or of his. Although it had started out with him simply giving in to a sexual attraction he'd only recently begun to allow himself to feel, he'd also been forced to admit to himself that it wasn't simply the physical needs of the body he craved from her. He'd told her that she counted and he'd always trusted her; why had it taken him so long to understand why he'd felt that way?

They were only words; they shouldn't be so difficult to form in his mind, to allow on his tongue and through his lips, but he found himself in the curious position of not knowing how best to express himself.

 _Stop overthinking it_ , he ordered himself. _Just say the words you're feeling. Let her know how much she means to you._

So he did. Being Sherlock Holmes, however, he did it in a way she couldn't have foreseen.

"Let the flat, Molly, and move in with me. I don't want to have to split my time between here and there, and my flat's larger. Mrs. Hudson won't mind Toby, she's fond of cats."

Molly lifted her head up in order to stare at him, completely stunned and unable to respond for a long moment. When she did speak, however, he was relieved to see that she understood him completely. A smile blossomed across her face, lighting up her brown eyes until the virtually sparkled. "Yes, Sherlock. Of course. Whenever you want."

"Tomorrow," he said firmly, settling her back into his embrace. "The day after at the latest, but I don't want to have to deal with packing and movers until after we've had the entire night to ourselves."

Just as Molly started to drift off to sleep, she heard him murmur: "And in case I didn't make myself clear, I love you too, Molly Hooper."


End file.
